


Crown of Roses, Heart of Briar

by Robin_Fai



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: All mistakes are my own, Angst, Blood, Did I mention there's some angst?, Flowers, Gaius is So Done (Merlin), Gen, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, I'm not an artist but I love drawing, Idiots in Love, Language of Flowers, M/M, Magic Revealed, Magical Illness, Merlin Needs a Hug (Merlin), Sad with a Happy Ending, Sick Character, Sort of? - Freeform, Unrequited Love, Whump, angst angst angst with a side of angst, dying, no one actually dies, there's some really bad fanart at the end if you get that far
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:54:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27031495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Fai/pseuds/Robin_Fai
Summary: So the heart becomes bound with the roots, the lungs filled with the vines and the flowers. Thorns will maim and cut where they grasp hold. The solitary heart bears not the strength to banish the maladie. Coughing and vomiting may dislodge the barriers but only for so long as it takes for more to grow. Witches' briar consumes all in time. Thirty days from the fall of the first petal are granted unto the sufferer. Hanahaki is the curse of those with magic in their veins. No man devoid of magic’s song shall suffer this bite.-Merlin knows he was condemned from the moment he found the first petal on his pillow, because there is no way that Arthur Pendragon, the King of Camelot, can ever return his love.
Relationships: Gaius & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 551





	Crown of Roses, Heart of Briar

**Author's Note:**

> I love this trope so much. I know its been done before and the ones in this fandom are soooo good, but what's that thing about just wanting carrot cake some days and eating seven of them in one sitting? Well, I wanted more cakes, so I made one. Hopefully some of you out there are also in the mood for it!  
> Gosh, yeah, that metaphor got away from me...  
> Bon appetit!

It starts like any other day. Merlin wakes as the first light of the dawn makes its way into his small chamber and sets to work for Gaius in the brief hour before the rest of the castle begins stirring. They share a brief breakfast of yesterday’s bread, then he makes his way to the kitchens to collect Arthur’s breakfast. Naturally he steals a few choice items from the plate as he makes his way through the corridors. He opens the door to Arthur’s room, dumps the tray on the table and flings the curtains open with far more energy than is strictly necessary.

There is a chill in the air and he thinks how someday soon he will have to begin making up a fire again as they drift steadily towards winter. Maybe, just maybe, he thinks, he won’t have to trek across the castle to light it. Maybe he’ll get to enjoy those rich warm covers Arthur lazes under all the time. Maybe he’ll get to satisfy his endless desire to know how his skin would feel pressed to Arthur’s, how it would be to wake him with soft kisses rather than loud greetings, how Arthur’s lips would feel pressed to his…

Merlin feels himself begin to blush. He’d never let himself imagine such things before, but since Arthur and Gwen separated things have been different between them. Arthur has been asking him to stay later, offering him wine and food, letting his hands linger when they touch. So Merlin has begun to hope, as he has never yet dared, that Arthur could perhaps feel something for him.

He has kept his own love as muted as possible over the years. For many of them he didn’t even recognise it as such. He had thought love was something that just happened, as it had with Freya. You looked at someone and recognised them as an essential component of your heart and soul, and that was that. Merlin had never considered that sometimes love might creep in when you’re not looking. So it was a shock to him when he looked up one summer’s eve and realised that he _loved_ the golden haired king who was illuminated in the last rays of the sun before him.

Arthur had been courting Gwen back then and, though sometimes he had felt the sting of knowing he could not be with the man he loved, he never wished them parted. He loved Gwen, she was his best friend besides Arthur, so if they were happy together then he was happy for them. It had been hard to watch the heartbreak of their separation, but Arthur had taken it better than he had expected. Merlin had waited for him to fall apart from the loss, but when he didn’t he felt the first glimmer of hope.

Arthur does not stir at the curtains being opened, no matter how violently, so it confuses Merlin when he hears a groan as he drags the heavy fall of fabric away from the next window. He turns around, ready with a quick jibe about Arthur finally waking on his own without the need of a fanfare, but then his heart stutters to a halt. The grin he had been wearing slides off his face.

Sitting up in Arthur’s bed, clearly naked, and rubbing his eyes, is none other than the visiting noble Arthur had been entertaining the night before, Lord Alrid.

Merlin manages to splutter an apology, before running from the room as competently as possible. He fails utterly as he stumbles over his own feet in the doorway and nearly traps his hand as he closes the door. He turns and leans back against the heavy wood for a long moment, trying to calm his now wildly beating heart. His chest feels strangely tight and his eyes burn with tears he hasn’t got time to shed.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

He hurries to the kitchen for a second breakfast, trying to avoid the cook’s suspicious look. He claims he dropped the previous one in case Arthur is planning to keep his liaison with the Lord a secret. He selfishly hopes he will. Something about the thought of them parading around the court together as a couple has him pausing in the corridor and trying to catch his breath.

It hurts more than he thought it could. Merlin is angry about letting himself hope, even just a little. He should have known that the most he could ever expect from Arthur would be a fickle kind of friendship. Yes, Arthur said things like, _‘you’re the only friend I have and I couldn’t bear to lose you’_ but then in the next breath would feel the need to emphasise it was a joke, or remind Merlin that despite anything they might share he was still nothing but a servant. Lowly, disposable, worthless. It was his own fault for focussing on only the beautiful things Arthur said to him and not the painful ones. 

No, it should have been obvious to him that Arthur would choose someone of his own station as his next love. Arthur always talks of wanting to marry for love, but he also understands duty and his role as a king, so he was bound to wait to find love with someone of a suitable rank. Gwen had been the exception because she is special, something Merlin clearly isn’t in Arthur’s eyes. Merlin’s rational mind tells him all this, but his heart only aches with the question of why it has to be Lord Alrid.

He knocks at the door this time. Arthur bids him enter in a way he hasn’t for years. His voice is formal, removed, and holds none of its usual warmth. Merlin stifles a cough and enters with the tray. Arthur sits across from Alrid at his table. He’s already dressed. Merlin pushes back the wave of irritation that passes over him at the thought of the other man helping his love dress for the day. Of course, there is a chance Arthur dressed himself, but he has never shown himself capable before now.

“Your breakfast, Sire.” He sets the tray on the table before Arthur. The first tray he brought is already being consumed by Lord Alrid.

“Thank you, Merlin. That will be all.” Arthur’s order is again stilted and exact, but he looks uncomfortable and his eyes flick between Merlin and Alrid.

“I… I informed the cook of my mishap dropping the first tray I brought,” he says in a rush. He has been dismissed but some part of him holds back from leaving, wants to let Arthur know that he will keep his secret.

Arthur snorts humourlessly. “At last, a plausible excuse from you. Dropping things is far more in your normal range of behaviour than most of the nonsense you usually make up.”

Alrid doesn’t even look up from his eating. “You keep around a servant that makes up excuses?”

“Yes, well, he does have some uses.” Arthur says with a sideways glance at Merlin.

“What, like barging in first thing in the morning without knocking and then trying to tear your curtains from the wall?” Alrid laughs and looks at Arthur as though Merlin weren’t even there.

“ _Some people_ aren’t as light sleepers as you,” Merlin mutters. “Some of us would still be waiting come noon were we to knock and wait to be admitted.”

Alrid curls his lip and wrinkles his nose as though his food suddenly smells bad. “You let a _servant_ talk to you like that?” Again he talks directly to Arthur.

“I am here you know.” Merlin says without thinking. His hands go to his hips in indignation. “I might be _nothing but a servant_ but I’ve got more manners and common courtesy than most nobles I’ve had the misfortune to meet!”

Alrid raises one solitary eyebrow and finally looks at Merlin. “Were we in my own residence I would have you flogged for such talk. Now, be a good boy and fetch me fresh clothes from my chambers.”

Arthur remains silent, looking embarrassed. Alrid reaches across the table and claims Arthur’s hand with his own. In that moment Merlin hates Arthur as equally as he loves him. His heart constricts painfully in his chest, his lungs feel heavy, again his throat itches for him to cough.

“Well we’re not in your castle and I’m not your servant. I serve Arthur, and Arthur alone. Fetch your own damn shirt!” Merlin’s mouth shuts with a snap. Alrid gapes at him. He knows he’s gone too far but he can’t bring himself to apologise or soften his insolence at all. The itch in his throat is becoming unbearable.

“You are dismissed, Merlin.” Arthur’s voice is cold, his free hand curled unconsciously into a fist.

“Arthur, I-”

“Out!” 

For the second time that morning, Merlin turns and flees the room.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

Merlin lies on the narrow bed in his chamber, the world spinning around him. The dizziness set in sometime around the point he tried to polish Arthur’s armour. The itching in his throat had become a coughing as he had sharpened his sword, then when he had set that aside to change tasks the armoury had suddenly felt a lot more suffocating. He had tried to ignore it, but when the room began to tilt in a nauseating fashion he had been forced to rush out to be sick. After several attempts to return to his work he’d had to concede defeat and had retreated to the safety of his own bed.

The day is getting on. Merlin knows he should have taken Arthur lunch and most likely is due to take him supper very soon, but he can’t bring himself to move. Let him suffer, he thinks, let him see how much I do for him. 

When Gaius returns from his rounds, Merlin claims a headache. He accepts the tonic a frowning Gaius offers him and falls into a fitful sleep full of dreams of wild roses, and Arthur kissing Alrid.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

In the morning there is a petal upon his pillow. It is bruised, faded, and coated with something he takes for mud until he sees how it flakes away, rust-like and brittle, and his attention is drawn to the spots that mar the pale fabric of his sheet. Blood. He assumes he must have inhaled the petal sometime the day before and that was what had aggravated his throat. Perhaps he had a nosebleed from the coughing. He drops the petal out of the window and watches it drift away. He vanishes the blood stains with a simple spell and thinks no more of it.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

At Arthur’s chambers Merlin knocks for admittance. He hasn’t fetched breakfast yet. He woke early enough that he decided to come and try to apologise for the day before. The thought of Arthur moving on and finding a new love breaks his heart, but he wants his friend to be happy. He hopes that Alrid is but a momentary distraction and that once it is over he will move on to someone more worthy of him. Preferably someone who is nicer to servants.

The door is answered by George rather than Arthur and Merlin feels the breath catch in his throat again. 

“Ah, Merlin,” George says with his painfully precise smile, “the King has requested that you take a week off to consider your position.” 

At first he just gapes, then he quickly finds his voice. “I don’t need a week off to consider anything. I just need a moment to speak with Arthur, to apologise to him.”

“Unfortunately that will not be possible. His Highness has requested you preclude from his presence until the week is over.” George at least has the grace to look awkward as he delivers the news. 

Merlin stares at George as though he has grown a second head. Arthur has done many things, but to banish him like this seems wholly out of character. “Surely once he understands I just want to apologise…?”

“I understand Gaius is rather busy a the moment? This might perhaps serve as an opportune occasion to assist him more fully?” George is looking stiffer by the minute. Merlin can hear Arthur moving about his morning routine behind him, or perhaps it is Alrid again. He wants to argue but the urge to cough returns and the ground feels unsteady.

“I… I will do that,” Merlin swallows uncomfortably around whatever is blocking his throat, “but _please_ could you tell Arthur I am sorry?” He tries not to sound as desperate as he feels.

George nods, and his expression almost looks sympathetic, then he closes the door.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

The week passes achingly slowly. Merlin throws himself into his work for Gaius. Every morning he is out gathering herbs before the dawn. When he returns he always visits Arthur’s chambers, but every time it is George who greets him, and George who sends him away.

His cough gets worse by the day. His lungs burn and every now and then he gets so dizzy he has to lie down. It feels like he has swallowed a thistle. 

He wants to ignore the petals, but every day there are more and more of them on his pillow, and the marks from the blood get harder to remove.

Gaius looks at him with concern, so he pleads a cold, just a minor inconvenience, something that will be gone in a few days. His lies feel weaker and weaker as the days go by. He knows he is lying to himself as much as he is to Gaius. Beneath the frenzied energy he pours into his work he knows there is something wrong.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

After a week, Lord Alrid leaves and Arthur finally grants him an audience. Merlin is too grateful for the opportunity to return to his side to really examine Arthur’s behaviour when they meet.

“I am truly sorry, my Lord. I have been trying to apologise for the last week. I know we have always had an… unconventional working relationship,” he has to pause to clear his throat, “but I never intended to cause insult, nor any kind of problem between you and your…” Merlin cannot finish the sentence. How would he end it? Friend? Lover? Consort? He doesn’t want to think of Alrid as any of those.

Arthur stares down at his hands, which are locked tightly together upon the table. “One day, Merlin…” He sighs and then looks over to the fire that George laid that morning. “One day you will say or do something and I won’t be able to protect you any more.”

“I understand, my Lord.” Merlin locks his hands behind his back to hide the way his fingers curl, his nails biting into his palms. There is a pleasure and a pain to seeing Arthur again. Oh how he has longed to be by his side once more, but now he knows it will never be anything more. He stifles another cough and tastes blood and blossom on his tongue.

“Alright, Merlin.” Arthur finally looks at him. There is something strange in his gaze. Something has changed irrevocably between them, Merlin thinks. Something has shifted from the easy friendship they once shared. He realises that he may have got his place back, but it has moved into Arthur’s shadow and out of his light. 

A sharp stabbing pain in his chest distracts him. He thinks of the petals he has been coughing up in his sleep and imagines his chest filling with flowers, the thorns on the stems cutting into his heart. 

“ _Mer_ lin, are you even listening to me?” Arthur says, irritated. His expression is so like it once was that a sliver of hope creeps back in, only to be dashed a moment later when Arthur sighs and looks away once more. “You may resume your duties from tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Sire.” Merlin thinks about bowing, completing his performance as dutiful servant with a flourish, but the ground seems to be tilting again and he isn’t sure of his balance if he were to do so. Instead, he gives Arthur a nod and leaves the chambers.

He doesn’t make it back to Gaius’ chambers before he has to stop to cough and cough, desperately trying to clear his throat, until he finally spits blood and blooms into into his neckerchief.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

The next week is worse than the previous. He is back to working for Arthur, but he seems to be determined to keep Merlin as far away from him as possible. He cleans out the stables every day, polishes armour until it gleams, scrubs pots, washes clothing, sharpens practically everything in the armoury. When they are together Arthur’s eyes slide over Merlin, as though he isn’t really there. There are none of the easy jokes they used to share, no casual touches, no conversations, and nothing gets thrown at him.

Merlin tries so hard to make things go back to normal. He jokes, he talks away about this and that, once or twice he even intentionally drops something to see if it gets a reaction, but Arthur just flinches and looks away, pointedly ignoring him. He never takes it too far because he is still fearful of losing his job, losing his place. He begins to feel insubstantial, like a shadow, as though he might cease to exist if Arthur continues to avoid looking at him.

Things are made so much worse by his mysterious malady. Every day it gets worse. The petals on his pillow become full blooms that he wakes to cough up in the night. Through the day his head aches with lack of sleep and shortness of breath. He has to concentrate to make it seem like he is breathing normally. His chest feels like it is full of clay, and his heart feels as though it is being filled with pins. Occasionally he has to stop working to cough blood or a few petals into his neckerchief. It hurts to use magic to vanish them, so he begins carrying around a spare, then two spare neckerchiefs for when the blood becomes too obvious.

Gaius watches him whenever they’re together, so he tries to act as normally as possible and bites his tongue to hold back the coughing. _‘Just a cold. It’ll pass.’_ He keeps lying to him.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

Eventually, even Arthur notices that all is not well.

“Is it contagious? I hope you didn’t come back just to give me your sickness.”

“No,” Merlin’s lie wheezes around petals that press up into his throat, “just a seasonal thing. It’ll pass.”

Arthur considers him for a long moment. Merlin can feel the link between them. stretched thin, fragile, but not entirely lost.

Arthur sighs, and for once doesn’t look away from Merlin. “My chambers need cleaning today. Make up a fire now and get to work while I’m with the council.”

Merlin frowns, confused. “Will you be back early then?”

“No. It’ll probably run all day again.”

Merlin sets about gathering up Arthur’s breakfast plates. Arthur has left half of his food, but that’s probably because Merlin is no longer stealing any of it. He just can’t seem to find much of an appetite these days. 

“I should make up the fire later then.” 

Arthur turns away to get his keys. “I said make up the fire now.”

“But-”

“Why do you always have to argue about everything, Merlin?” 

Arthur is annoyed. Merlin has to remember to be careful now. But it is so hard to be cautious when just two weeks before he had been imagining they could have a future together.

“Sorry, Sire.”

Merlin feels a sharp pain in his chest and tries to hide the way he wants to curl around it by bending down to pick something off the floor. It’s a foolish move because then his head is spinning. He stands up cautiously and gathers the platter and jug ready to leave. Arthur is watching him again, eyes narrowed and suspicious. 

“I’ll light the fire right after I take these back, Sire.” He leaves without being dismissed

❁❁❁❁❁❁

That afternoon Merlin slips away from his work to look through Gaius’ books while he is with a patient in the lower town. As expected, there is nothing among the regular entries on coughs and colds. He doesn’t know why he looked really, no normal illness involves flowers spontaneously appearing in your lungs. He gives up for the day.

He resumes his search the next day in the library. Sir Geoffrey glares at his coughing, but Melin can’t help it in such a dusty environment. He covers his mouth with his neckerchief and tries to breathe evenly. Merlin looks up the flowers themselves rather than continuing looking at ailments. He’s putting off the inevitable. He already knows what the blooms are, he’s spent enough time working for Gaius that he would have to be a fool not to recognise the dog rose, or witches briar as his mother called it. 

The entries he finds are disparaging. These books are more interested in cultivation and appearances. The dog rose is too wild and common a flower to be worthy of their attention. He retreats to the familiar safety of medicinal texts. Finally, he finds a note that draws his attention at the end of an entry on the uses of briars:

_The dog rose, a strong-willed climbing deciduous, found amidst hedgerows and woodlands. Bears pink and white blooms in the spring and summer blessed by a mild sweet fragrance. The blossom is used in offerings to the gods and in funeral rites. No truth spoken beneath a bower of briar may be repeated elsewhere. The stems have hooked thorns. Red hips form in the late summer. The roots may cure the bite of the rabid dog. Syrup may be made from the hips to treat sicknesses of swelling, waters, and digestion. The hairs of the hips will create a powder that induces itching. Also called a witches briar for its relation to the hanahaki disease._

There is nothing more beneath it. No elaboration of what this mysterious ‘hanahaki disease’ is, nor of its cure. The link to the name witches briar only confirms what he already knew; this is a magical ailment. He should return to Gaius’ chambers and look it up, but something holds him back. There could be a simple cure, or it might go away of its own accord, but deep down he fears not.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

Merlin ignores the flowers for another two days. It has now been almost three weeks since he found the first petal. They are almost always whole flowers now, and they come more and more frequently. He knows everyone is looking at him with concern now. He coughs all the time and has to hurry away to bring up the flowers regularly. He is constantly dizzy, weak, and eating is an exhausting ordeal. Sleep claims him as soon as he gets to bed each night, but he is always thrown back out of it before too long by spasms that rack his whole body and a feeling like his heart and lungs are being crushed and bitten.

He is so tired that his magic is weak and even removing the blood that comes up with the blooms proves to be too hard. He tries to hide the traces but he is sure from the way that they whisper that some of the other servants have noticed. So far he’s managed to hide it from Gaius though. He knows once he sees there will be no more denying the seriousness of his situation. He is glad he created a charm that hangs on his door and keeps the sounds in his room from reaching Gaius so that at night at least he can stop suppressing the cough.

On the third day, as he changes his tunic, he looks at himself properly for the first time in days and is shocked at what he sees. Spreading from approximately where he thinks his heart must be are wiry black lines that crawl across his skin like a tattoo. They remind him of roots. He covers himself quickly and pulls the book of magical maladies he has been refusing to read out from under his bed.

He finds hanahaki easily enough. The name is strange and foreign sounding, but he would have remembered it anyway. His eyes blur with fatigue, but he can still see the illustrations easily enough and they have him rushing to his window to vomit up rose, after rose, after rose.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

Merlin sits at Arthur’s table with the lonely, pure white, flower he has just coughed up. He hasn’t the energy to clean any more so he steals a moment to rest. He twists the small section of stem and marvels at its beauty. When they’re not coated in blood the blooms are really quite attractive. It is hard to think that they are killing him from the inside out, that his days are now numbered. He is so captivated that he doesn’t even hear Arthur enter or approach, so he jumps when he speaks and drops the flower.

“You’re bringing me flowers now?”

“What? No. Of course not.” Merlin’s voice is thick with unshed blooms. He isn’t bringing Arthur flowers, his heart is growing them for him.

Arthur plucks the flower off the table. “Or have you crucially misunderstood how the rose for relations works?”

Merlin has no idea what Arthur is talking about. He only hears the teasing, friendly tone, the warmth in his voice. It is so much of what he had hoped, and still too little. The thorns tear at his throat and the roots cling tighter to his heart.

“The king is supposed to leave a dog rose upon a maiden’s bed to solicit her company that night. A manservant isn’t supposed to use it for the opposite.” 

Arthur laughs at his own joke and wanders to his armoire, still spinning the flower between his fingers. Merlin’s gaze follows him and it takes everything in him not to cry. He would have followed Arthur all of his life, but now he has but a handful of days left to appreciate his beauty.

“Of course, a red or pink would be more fitting though. Using the white rose of ‘purity’ and ‘worthiness’ seems a little untruthful in the context,” Arthur continues.

“You know about flowers?” Merlin asks, smiling despite his pain.

Arthur glares back at him and sets the rose aside as he throws various shirts and tunics out onto the floor. “Morgana and I shared tutors much of the time. I guess I just… overheard one or two things.”

Merlin props his chin up in his palms, leaning his elbows on the table. He should get up and sort out the tangle that Arthur is creating for him, but the way the light from the window is catching on his hair and his armour is just perfect. If he has but ten days left at Arthur’s side then he has to make the most of golden moments like this. Arthur catches him staring and looks at him curiously. 

“What else do you know about roses then?” He asks, just to try and capture this time for a little longer.

Arthur considers him, as if trying to work out if Merlin is mocking him. “Well… a single wild rose like this can mean simplicity but in general they mean ‘pleasure and pain’. Pink roses usually mean ‘friendship’ or ‘happiness’. Red roses are for love.” At this, Arthur clears his throat and picks the white rose back up. He wanders over and sits opposite Merlin at the table. 

Merlin is seized by an urge to seize the agile fingers that are twisting and twirling the rose around as if in a dance. He has to fight against the suffocating feeling in his throat. Arthur is staring at him and would definitely see if he coughed up blood and roses right then.

“Everyone knows about red roses.” He teases. For the first time in weeks the tension between them is absent, and Merlin relaxes into the clear air it opens up.

Arthur looks smug. “Ah, but have you heard _why_ they’re for love though?” 

“No, but I have a feeling I’m about to find out.”

Arthur swipes Merlin’s arm playfully so his head tilts forward, abruptly no longer supported. 

“There’s this myth – a rose bush grew from the blood of a fallen hero. It was to show his lover that their love was immortal and would never fade, even after death.”

Arthur looks up and his gaze meets Merlin’s. His smile falls away and he looks serious again. Merlin is seized by an overwhelming urge to cry. 

Merlin thinks of the flowers that are killing him. If they were all that was left of him how would Arthur feel, he wonders. “That doesn’t sound all that romantic to me. Blood stained flowers aren’t exactly a compensation when the one you love is dead.” 

Arthur shrugs. “Not romantic maybe, but there is a sad kind of beauty about it.”

“A _sad kind of beauty?!_ Have you been reading poetry again?” He’s teasing but his heart isn’t in it. 

Arthur swats him again and his hand lingers on Merlin’s shoulder. For one heartbeat Merlin wonders – perhaps he was wrong to believe whatever they almost had was all in his imagination – but then Arthur stands up, cold and brusque once more.

“Come on, that’s enough sappy talk. I need to get ready for this supper.”

❁❁❁❁❁❁

That night Merlin sits alone in his room, the book open at the page on hanahaki. It condemns him in black and white and red. Thirty days from the first onset is all that it offers. Thirty days of unrequited love slowly killing him with flowers. There is no cure that he could take. The only way to cure hanahaki is for love to be reciprocated, or for the object of your affection to die. Even their death is no simple cure; it replaces the heartache of unrequited love with that of grief. Sometimes the briar will wither and die under those circumstances it says, but sometimes not.

_So the heart becomes bound with the roots, the lungs filled with the vines and the flowers. Thorns will maim and cut where they grasp hold. The solitary heart bears not the strength to banish the maladie. Coughing and vomiting may dislodge the barriers but only for so long as it takes for more to grow. Witches briar consumes all in time. Thirty days from the fall of the first petal are granted unto the sufferer. Hanahaki is the curse of those with magic in their veins. No man devoid of magic’s song shall suffer this bite._

The pictures below the remaining words show the roots covering the skin, the stems filling the chest and throat, the flowers bursting forth from the mouth. A grotesque fountain of blood and flora. Merlin can’t see any of Arthur’s ‘sad kind of beauty’ in it at all.

The worst is that he now knows he cannot be found out, or his ten short days remaining will be cut short. He doesn’t want to die as horribly as the book depicts, but he is also in no hurry to burn, hang, or lose his head for sorcery.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

Two days later there is a plea for help from one of the outlying villages. A fever has taken hold and they need a physician. Normally Merlin would volunteer to go, but he is loathe to leave Arthur’s side, and Gaius looks sidelong at him as he coughs into his neckerchief before insisting he is more fit to travel.

Merlin feels light-headed with relief and sorrow. He never wanted Gaius to find out that he was so sick, but this means he will probably not see the old man he loves like a father again before he dies. He helps Gaius to pack as an excuse to spend more time close to him and does his very best to appear normal. His deception fails, but not entirely.

“Merlin-”

“I’ve packed the powders and leaves within your oilskin wrap to ensure they stay dry in case it rains.” 

“Merlin-”

“I’ll replace those items that we’re short of in the morning so we’re fully stocked when you return.”

“Merlin!” Gaius grasps his wrist as he passes. Merlin avoids his gaze. “You will do no such thing, do you understand?”

“But we need-”

“Merlin, you are sick. I don’t know what manner of cold should affect you so, but you need rest. You are not to go out gathering herbs. If I had my way you would have at least a day off to recuperate-”

“I don’t need a day off.” Merlin cuts in. 

Gaius raises an eyebrow at him and sighs. “Yes, you do.” He raises a hand to silence Merlin when he would object again. “I know my pleas will fall on deaf ears. So, instead, I want you to promise that you will take care of yourself while I am gone. Take your tonic, eat properly, rest as much as possible, don’t over work yourself, and for the love of the goddess _please_ get some help if this gets any worse.”

Merlin nods. He won’t lie to Gaius now. He won’t make a promise he can only break at their parting. So he nods rather than promising. 

Gaius sighs but accepts it. As he rides away with the contingent of knights that will be his guard, Gaius looks back. Merlin smiles. He tries to make it the most normal, happy, and encouraging smile he can offer. He raises a hand and waves. Gaius waves back. Then the party round a corner and are out of sight. 

Merlin slips away to find somewhere to let the grief wash over him. For the first time he has to face up to how little time he has left. For the first time the fact that he is dying feels real, and so very terrible.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

Arthur has been strange since Gaius went away. He sets Merlin simple tasks, things that mean he can sit in Arthur’s chambers like writing speeches, and he always insists on a fire. Merlin suspects Gaius spoke to him about his suspicions before he left. Arthur may no longer care about him, but he would never deny Gaius if he made a request for leniency. He would argue but even the walk across the castle is enough to leave him winded. Besides, talking is hard now. When he has to speak it is barely more than a whisper.

Merlin fully intends to keep working until the day he dies, but he hasn’t really thought about how he will carry on as his condition deteriorates, nor how quickly it could become insufferable. In the end he lasts two days after Gaius leaves before he has to admit he needs to cut back. He wakes to the feeling of something blocking his airway and coughs and wretches until there is a pile of flowers in a pool of blood on the floor of his room. His breathing rustles and drags its way painfully past the stems and down into his congested lungs. He can’t even begin to think about going to the kitchens, carrying a tray, helping Arthur dress. 

Pulling himself up, he changes his bloodied tunic. His chest now reminds him of the forest floor. The roots have spread to cover most of his abdomen and there are other marks now, angry and red, shaped like vines and leaves. They grow around his chest and back, entwined around his ribcage. Just the simple act of changing makes him dizzy so he admits defeat and finds a passing servant to send word to George asking him to stand in for him until the afternoon. 

He cleans up the mess from earlier and returns to his bed. A sudden rage overtakes him and he screams breathlessly into his hands. Everything smells of rust and pollen. His lips are red with blood. He has five days left and it isn’t enough. _It isn’t enough._

❁❁❁❁❁❁

Bright sunlight fills the room when he next wakes. Merlin manages to drink something but food feels like an impossibility now. He knows he has lost a lot of weight in the last weeks. He supposes he should feel hungry given how hollow he looks, but the flowers only demand watering.

The reflection in Gaius’ looking glass tells him he has almost used up the last of the time he can spend in Camelot. While he slept one of the vies has worked its way above his collar. He can hide it for now under his neckerchief, but that won’t work much longer. Merlin has to make a choice now; to remain in Camelot and await the execution that will come when someone finds him and sees the evidence of his magic, or go away somewhere to wait out the rest of his days alone. 

He considers these stark options, both devoid of any hope, as he makes his way achingly slowly to Arthur’s chambers. Arthur is not there when he arrives and for some reason that brings tears to his eyes, no matter how great the danger would be if he had been there. He imagines seeing Arthur’s face as he is executed. Would it be bitter and damning? Cold and heartless? Or worse yet, hurt, betrayed… No, he cannot accept that ending. 

He wants to leave a note, but he knows that will only hasten any search party that might be sent. So he must slip away. He must go now and not look back. 

So this is how it ends. Their great destiny cut short. One side of the coin scrubbed smooth. He will never see his king again. Merlin will never see Arthur, hold him, tell him all that he means to him. He wants to cry for how unfair it all is, and for all the unspoken, unrequited love that fills him with briars.

A coughing fit sees him brought to his knees on the cold stone floor. The flowers he coughs up here are pure and white, unmarked by blood. They are only ever that way when Merlin is here, surrounded by all things Arthur. He sets them on the table before he leaves. They can stand in for the goodbye he could never say. They will be Merlin’s sad poetry that perhaps Arthur might find some beauty in.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

There’s no point in packing. What good would it do to bring anything? Merlin only takes a bedroll, a flask of water, and whatever simple food is to hand. The journey through the citadel is uneventful. He has packed his supplies in his herb collecting bag and simply holds it up in answer to any queries about where he’s going. Perhaps it would have been wiser to leave at night, slip out under the cover of darkness when no one would know, but he is too weak to contemplate subtlety or magic.

The forests welcome him like he is returning home. The briar grips him tighter and the flowers bloom. He quickly leaves the main path and wanders deeper, deeper, until he is far from any route anyone would think he might take. Progress is slow when he has to stop so often to cough. If anyone seeks him they might dismiss the flowers but they would certainly notice the blood, so he coughs into his shirt and brings the blooms along. 

When night falls, he stops in a glade and builds a small fire before falling into a restless, fevered sleep. He dreams Arthur is standing over him and calling his name, but he can’t reply, instead a flower blooms wide in his mouth and the stems escape, wrapping him, binding him, dragging him down, down, down into the thick airless earth.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

_“Merlin… Mer… Merlin!”_

At first he thinks he is dreaming again. Someone is calling his name. Arthur is calling his name. He would know that voice anywhere. He smiles to hear his name called. 

Then the fear in the tone breaks through his slumber and he feels a cool hand on his shoulder, shaking him urgently. What could have his king so worried? Has he failed him? Is something wrong? 

His eyes are so heavy but he drags them open to see Arthur, dressed for riding, kneeling beside him.

“Arthur?” He can barely force the words past the dense foliage in his throat.

“Merlin! What in the name of-” Arthur breaks off, jaw set, and takes a few deep breaths. Merlin envies the ease with which he does that. “What were you thinking coming out here when you’re so sick?”

Merlin tries to smile reassuringly, but he knows it must look as brittle as he feels. “Were you-” He has to stop to cough. Luckily this time it is dry but he wonders if there is blood on him from the night. “Were you worried about me? I never knew you cared.” It’s meant as a joke. It doesn’t sound like a joke to his ears.

“Of course I was, you idiot! Can you get up? I need to get you back to Camelot so we can get you treated.” There is tension written in every limb of Arthur’s body. 

Merlin considers and then slowly begins the painstaking process of getting his body to comply with his demands. He makes it to standing, but not for long. No sooner is he up than he’s crashing back down to his knees, coughing up yet more of the wretched flowers. He notices that a few of the flowers have turned to rosehips, their own red made glossy with the crimson of his blood.

“Merlin? What’s… What is happening? Why are there...” Arthur’s voice twists with some kind of emotion. Probably shock, he thinks. 

There is a long silence, broken only by Merlin’s laboured breathing, then Arthur suddenly leans down and grasps him, dragging him to standing with his strong arms.

“Come on Merlin. Let’s get you home.”

❁❁❁❁❁❁

The journey back is as painful as it is awkward. Arthur sets Merlin upon his horse and then climbs up behind him, gripping tightly around his middle. Merlin protests he will be fine, but they both know that’s a lie so Arthur simply ignores him and keeps a hold.

At any other time Merlin might have enjoyed being held so close to his love, but his chest aches at every jolt in their passage and no matter how lightly Arthur tries to hold him it can’t help but dig into his emaciated form. They have to keep stopping for Merlin to bring up more flowers. Every time Arthur’s face gets tighter. Merlin dreads their arrival back in Camelot. Someone will know about hanahaki and then it will all be over.

He wants to tell Arthur that this is pointless. He is dead already. He’s only got four days left. _‘leave me in the forest. Leave me to the earth.’_ He wants to say it but then Arthur holds him closer, whispers in his ear that they’re nearly home, promises him they’ll find a cure. 

Somewhere around the edge of the forest he loses consciousness again. As the spires and banners of Camelot come into view, a grey fog rolls into his brain, and everything fades away. His last thought is that if he is about to be sentenced to death at least he had these few precious hours in the arms of the man he loves.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

Time stutters by in moments of painful consciousness and expanses of nothing. Someone carries him, lays him down somewhere soft and warm. There is the smell of a newly laid fire, candlewax, and fresh linen. Someone removed his tunic and swears loudly. Voices try to reach him but he cannot focus. He sleeps. He wakes over and over to cough and each time he is weaker than the last. One time he wakes and thinks that Arthur is holding his hand, but that must be a dream.

The next time he wakes properly he is in a bed that is far more extravagant than his own and Gaius is holding a hand to his forehead.

“Gaius?” 

“Merlin,” Gaius breathes, looking down at him with anxious eyes, “you’re awake finally.”

Merlin dips his head slightly in acknowledgement.

“Do you know what is happening?” Gaius asks. 

Merlin can tell that he knows. Gaius knows that Merlin knew he was dying and he is hurt that he never said anything. Slowly, he nods again. He would cry, but he is just too tired.

“Who is it? Who? We need to get them here. Surely once they understand-”

Merlin interrupts Gaius’ frantic words with a small shake of the head. It is futile. His love will never be returned. Arthur couldn’t love him.

“Merlin, please, just tell me. We have to try at least…” 

Merlin shakes his head again. There are tears in Gaius’ eyes. They both know it is futile.

“How long?”

“How long… have I been asleep?” Merlin manages to ask. There is less pain now, but it is nearly impossible to talk.

“A day. Arthur brought you back yesterday and sent someone to fetch me. Luckily I was already on my way back. I’ve only just arrived.” Gaius looks down at his hands. They are marked with blood, much like the fancy sheets that Merlin is laid in. “I’ve seen this before and I wished that day never to see it again. Thirty days is all you get with hanahaki. Its cruel… The most… cruel. How long have you got? How many days left, Merlin? By the looks of you there can’t be all that many.” Gaius meets Merlin’s gaze once more, and the look in his eyes is so distraught that he wishes he had confided in him earlier.

Merlin slowly gathers the air he needs to speak into his lungs, and then says, “three days.” 

“No!” Gaius grabs Merlin’s hand roughly. “You foolish boy! There must be a solution. We can find a solution.” Merlin shakes his head but Gaius isn’t listening. “Please just tell me who it is? _Please!_ ”

Merlin wants to tell him, wants at least one person to know, but there’s not enough room amidst all the roots for his heart to beat properly. He tries to remain focussed but he loses his grasp on the conversation and drifts back to an intermittent sleep.

As he dreams, he imagines he hears Gaius and Arthur talking. They talk quietly at first, then Arthur is shouting, pleading, ordering, but Gaius’ words remain quietly heavy.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

Someone else is holding his hand when next he claws his way from the briars and into the waking world. Merlin opens his eyes to find Arthur sat at his bedside, both hands wrapped around Merlin’s own. They feel so hot compared to the cold that fills him. The most beautiful blue eyes meet his own, and they are full of tears.

“Merlin.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but instead he coughs. A cascade of perfect white flowers falling to the floor. Arthur is holding him steady, rubbing small circles on his back as he gags.

“It’ll be alright, just relax, I’ve got you.”

Merlin leans back on the bed. He finally recognises it now as Arthur’s. It looks different when laid in it. He wants to laugh because he’d always daydreamed of this moment but for far more enjoyable reasons. Still, at least he has Arthur, and he’s not been beheaded yet. Perhaps he’s decided that this fate is more suitable a punishment. But Arthur doesn’t look like someone out for revenge… Perhaps Gaius hasn’t told him…

Once Merlin’s breath evens out as much as it can, Arthur begins talking. “Merlin… Gaius has explained about your sickness. I need you to tell me who it is that you…” Arthur looks away for a moment and tries to surreptitiously brush away tears. “I need you to tell me who you love. Then we can get her here and sort out this whole sorry mess.”

Merlin’s heart aches in its cage of briar. He shakes his head. 

“Merlin, this is an order from your king; tell me. We need to fix this. I need you… I need you back by my side.”

Merlin shakes his head again. The rooms spins lightly with the effort.

“Don’t be such a clotpole, _Mer_ lin. You’re not going to die from love, alright? Forget what I said. Forget everything I ever said. Whoever they are, they’re not worthy of you. You, however, are more than worthy of anyone’s heart. So just tell me. We are going to fix this. I’m _not_ going to lose you.” Arthur is trying for a mocking tone but he’s missed substantially and the tears now flowing freely down his face report the lie anyway.

Merlin smiles then, and it is a genuine smile for the first time in weeks. He doesn’t want Arthur to cry for him, but he also can’t help but love him all the more for the care he is showing for a servant. Or perhaps they are friends. If nothing else, surely they have been through enough together to claim that title at least, even despite the events of the past few weeks. He reaches up a shaking hand and rubs a thumb along Arthur’s cheek, brushing away the tears. Arthur leans into the touch and Merlin thinks his heart might just stop then and there.

“I’m sorry.” He manages to whisper.

“What for?”

“Lying. Magic.”

Arthur tenses, but only for a moment. “Were you ever going to tell me? Or were you just going to limp off into the forest to die alone rather than tell your best friend that you have magic and that you were – are – dying?” There’s a bitterness that Merlin had feared in Arthur’s words but that isn’t what stills his hand. The way Arthur is talking… it’s like he knew…

“You knew?”

“Since the feast.” Arthur replies. 

_Since that night with Alrid,_ Merlin realises.

“You slipped up just before we left for the evening. Fixed my shirt when you thought I couldn’t see. I was in shock so I just… went along as normal. Then I got blind drunk and… well… you know the rest.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that.” Arthur snaps. “I get it, alright. Sorcery being illegal and all, you weren’t exactly going to be falling over yourself to tell me, the king, that you had magic, but I thought... Yes, I was angry at first, and hurt too, but I came to realise why. I’m not angry about that any more. After I got over it I figured perhaps it was too late to make amends given the way you were acting… but I hoped maybe that was just because you were sick and when you got better...” Arthur sighs, all the anger about him dissipating.

“Please just tell me who it is? Who are you in love with, Merlin? Compared to confessing you have magic, or admitting to all you’ve ever done to save me, or all that you’ve ever done outside of the laws, what is so bad about saying you love someone? What could be so bad about _love_ of all things that you’d be prepared to die rather than confess your feelings?” As he’s talking, Arthur grasps Merlin’s hand again. 

When he realises Arthur is waiting for an answer he shakes his head. “They can’t love me.”

“How can you know? Have you told them?” Arthur demands. Merlin shakes his head gently. “Well then how can you know if you never tell them? How can they return your love if you never give them a chance?”

Merlin wishes it were so simple. If only just telling Arthur he loved him could solve everything. Instead, he knows that if he were to do that it would spoil this last perfect moment. For all his kindness, Arthur could never love someone as lowly as him.

He begins coughing again. There are dots in his vision and he’s sure he must be near the end. Sleep reclaims him.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

He wakes in the dark. Someone has climbed onto the bed atop the covers beside him. _Arthur..._ He reaches out a shaking hand and runs it through those stupid golden locks.

“I love you,” he whispers into the dark, his voice no more substantial than pollen on the breeze.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

He awakes next to pain and confusion. There is blood. Too much blood, and so many flowers.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

Arthur is shouting at Gaius. The words don’t make any sense at first, but then he begins to hear more clearly.

“...you don’t understand! He’s my friend and I am NOT going to let him die like this. There must be something more we can do!”

“I am sorry, Arthur. Don’t you think that if there were a solution that I would have done it already? Merlin is like a son to me. I don’t want him to die any more than you do.”

Merlin opens he mouth to call for them, to stop them arguing, and chokes…

❁❁❁❁❁❁

_“Don’t you DARE die on me, Merlin. You’re not allowed. I forbid it – you hear me? As your king I FORBID you from dying!”_

Merlin is in so much pain now and there is so little air, but he wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. Something like laughter stutters through the briars, dislodging petals in its wake.

“Are you – you’re _not_ laughing?! You can’t laugh when you’re dying!” Arthur is red in the face and looks utterly indignant

Merlin smiles at Arthur, takes in one last look at that wonderful face that haunts his dreams, and lets his eyes fall closed.

“Merlin?” Arthur shakes his shoulder as he did back in the forest. Merlin can’t summon the energy to do anything, not even breathe. He can feel the barbs of the briar on his tongue. It is time.

“No. I am not… you can’t… Merlin, _please_ ,” Arthur sobs and it is at once so close to him, and so, so, very far away. “Please, Merlin. You can’t die. I love you. Please don’t die.”

The words are like a jolt of lightning direct to his heart. Merlin’s eyes fly open. 

_What?!_

“Merlin?” Arthur grips his hand tighter. 

“What did you say?” Merlin isn’t sure how he manages to speak around the flowers, but he has to know if what he heard was right.

Arthur opens his mouth once, twice, then sets his jaw. “I love you. I know you love someone else and that’s why you’re… sick, but I can’t let you go without telling the truth. I love you. I love you and I don’t want you to die.”

Arthur closes his eyes. Merlin is fairly sure his mouth is hanging agape. He’s in shock. He can’t process the words.

“Am I dreaming? Is this the fever? Or did I die?” It must be one of those three because how else would his voice sound so clear.

Arthur opens his eyes again. He looks so pale and tired and Merlin longs to hold him.

“You’re very much awake, and… and still alive.”

Merlin still can’t fathom the meaning to what Arthur said. “You love me?”

“Yes. That’s what I said. Or are your ears full of flowers too?”

Merlin laughs, but it comes out as a hacking cough. “I’m dying here... and you’re... insulting me?” He gasps the words out between fits of coughing that bring up a few leaves along with the petals.

“Would you believe me if I told you in a more romantic way? I would, but… well, you were right. Nothing romantic about blood and roses. Poetry be damned; I’d rather have you, alive, and well. I know that can’t-”

“I love you too.”

“-happen but I wanted to tell y- Wait, what did you say?”

“I love you too, you prat.”

“Prat?”

Merlin can’t answer because he’s overcome by a wave of sickness. In the next moment he has to break away from Arthur to wretch over and over until the floor is bright with flowers, stems, and leaves.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts for the guards to fetch Gaius.

Arthur is holding him tight and Merlin is no longer afraid. If he dies he can die happy in the arms of his love, but he is pretty sure he isn’t dying any more.

❁♥❁❁♥❁❁♥❁

Gaius raises an eyebrow when he arrives, but Merlin just smiles at him between coughing fits; he knows he’ll figure it out. He can tell the moment he works out what is happening when he looks between the stems and Arthur, still holding fast to Merlin’s back, and his eyes shine bright with a cautious optimism.

“Gaius, what is happening? Is this it? We’ve got to do something!” Arthur is still in a panic, not understanding what it took Gaius moments to discover.

Gaius smiles at them both. “No, this is not ‘it’, Sire. I would say this is the exact opposite in fact.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“Did you perchance just have a rather heartfelt talk with Merlin?”

Arthur blushes and unconsciously grips Merlin a little tighter. “I… well… That is…”

“I don’t need the details, Sire, but suffice to say that when love is reciprocated then the sufferer of hanahaki recovers entirely.”

“But we don’t even know who it is.” 

Merlin cannot believe how dense the prat of a king he loves is. “I just told you-” He begins to try and explain, but is cut off by his lungs trying to exit his body.

When the cough finally subsides and Merlin’s eyes stop watering he looks up to see if Arthur has understood. He is not expecting the anger he finds there.

“You almost let yourself _die_ because you _love me_?!”

Merlin flinches slightly. “It wasn’t exactly a choice.”

“You could have told me!”

“And said what exactly? Good morning your Highness; I, a lowly servant, am dying of a disease that only affects those with magic, which you’ll have to execute me for of course, and although I know you hate me given the way you’ve been treating me of late I’m dying of this because I’m in love with you, so is there any chance your excessively prattish behaviour has been some elaborate ruse to cover up that you actually have feelings for me too?” 

Merlin is short of breath by the time he finishes speaking. He is pretty certain his rant wouldn’t have made sense, even if his voice were clear.

Arthur lets go of him and folds his arms across his chest defensively. “I never hated you.”

“You were doing a good job of acting like you did!”

“You were the one that kept the small matter of being a sorcerer from me.” 

“Actually, I’m a warlock. Born with magic.”

“Oh and that makes it _so_ much better!”

“You’re both idiots” Gaius pronounces over their bickering. It is so unexpected that their argument grinds to a halt and they both turn to look at the old man. “Merlin, as glad as I am to hear you sounding healthier you need rest. Drink this,” he presses a small vial into Merlin’s hand, “and Arthur, Sire, with the greatest respect, and as touching as your sentiments are, right now you are _not helping_. Merlin is still weakened and his body will need time to recuperate and rid itself of the briar. He may now be safe from the hanahaki itself but common infection remains a risk.”

Merlin drinks the tonic down and is gratified to feel it moving more freely than anything has in over a week. It makes him realise how thirsty and hungry he is, so he gladly accepts the water that Gaius hands him next. 

“Sip that slowly. You will need to re-accustom yourself to eating and drinking. I’ll have a broth sent up shortly.”

Arthur has gone pale and tense again. He watches Merlin drink anxiously. He looks up at Gaius once more when Merlin sets the vessel aside. 

“What should I do to help?” 

“Just… be there for him. It’s going to be a tiring few days, but I am certain that you will bear the burden admirably.”

Gaius nods to them both and briefly enfolds Merlin in a gentle hug before leaving them alone once more.

“I think I could do with some more sleep now.” Merlin mumbles from where he’s slumped back on the bed. 

Arthur hovers uncertainly, torn between resuming his place beside Merlin and stepping away.

Merlin sighs as dramatically as his aching chest allows and throws back the covers. “I know you’ve been sleeping next to me. Just get in you daft lump.”

Arthur only pauses for a moment before hurrying to comply. Merlin turns slightly and claims one of Arthur’s hands in his own. It is surreal and perfect. He wants to stay in this moment forever but he is so tired his eyelids are already drooping.

Arthur turns in so they lie face to face. “Go to sleep, Merlin.” 

“You look tired too.” Merlin yawns.

“Hard to sleep when someone is coughing themselves to death beside you.”

“I had an excuse. What’s your excuse for snoring like a bear?”

Arthur ignores the insult. He’s staring at Merlin’s lips and it is beyond distracting. “Can I kiss you?”

Merlin’s heart beats faster and he feels the roots that had been binding it loosen. “I can’t imagine it would be all that nice for you, what with the flowers and the blood and all…”

“And what if I don’t care about that if it means I get to kiss you?”

“Then… you should kiss me I suppose?”

Arthur leans in and presses his lips gently to Merlin’s in a chaste kiss. Then he rests down, their foreheads touching. Merlin’s eyes drift closed of their own accord and he can feel sleep claiming him.

“I love you,” Merlin mumbles.

“You taste of rosehip syrup.” 

Merlin makes a wordless noise of complaint. “Told you.”

“I quite like it,” Arthur says, and it sounds as though he is on the edge of sleep as well. There is a moment of silence, and then he adds, “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> The plan was 5000 words and not too heavy on the angst but then I got writing and the writing got away and I thought damn it I don't care, I like angst, and here we are. I hope the ending made up for that onslaught though! 
> 
> (I have no excuse for my 'art' other than I enjoy drawing despite the skill in it still eluding me after all these years XD )


End file.
